


All That Remains

by SailorJollyRegina



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Language, Physical Abuse, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:48:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorJollyRegina/pseuds/SailorJollyRegina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young Daryl Dixon once got lost in the woods. What will he find when he comes out on the other side? Starts out in non-ZA but will build up to being semi-canon with the show. Slow paced, character based.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this fic up fanfiction.net for a while and I'm hoping with more exposure I'll find myself more inspired to continue writing. I do feel a bit like I'm cheating by putting it on two sites, but I guess I shouldn't. Either way, enjoy!
> 
> Also big thanks to my beta Carrot Top! I love you!

  **Chapter One**

 

“Giddup! Daryl, c’mon!” Merle slapped the sleeping eleven year old on the chest as he yelled.

 

Daryl woke with a start, eyes instantly alert and his left hand moving to rub the reddening handprint on his chest.

 

Merle was standing in the doorframe of Daryl’s room, craning his neck to see something beyond Daryl’s line of sight, a sheen of sweat reflecting off his brow.

 

“Dad home?” Daryl asked apprehensively, wiping the sleep from his eyes. If it was their dad, he was going to get the hell out and fast, he knew that for sure. The electricity had been cut off yesterday and Will Dixon would have no way to keep his whiskey cold. Of course, Will would not see it as any fault of his own. If Merle hung around, he would take the beating, but not before getting a few blows in himself. They would fight until Will passed out and Merle would be so pissed he would leave. Daryl would then have to tiptoe around the house or stay put to avoid waking the beast and his rage.

 

“Nah, nah, nah…not him,” Merle was at the front door now, peeking out the windows every few seconds like a mad man. “Fuckin’ Tony told the cops I was the one who burned down Springer’s joint last month. Stupid sumbitch!” He pounded his fist on the window frame in anger.

 

“Well, ain’t ya?” Daryl asked, pulling on a shirt from the foot of his bed.

 

Merle grinned at this, “Tha’s neither here nor there, as they say, baby brother.” He took one final look out the window, his breath coming out in a whoosh.

 

Daryl sighed inwardly. “You on that stuff again,” it was more a statement than a question. Daryl knew that meth certainly had not been the cause of Merle’s delinquency; it had just made his already fiery temperament that much worse.

 

 Merle shot Daryl a look that would have frightened anyone else, but he was used to them by now. Just as Merle was opening his mouth to send some smart remark back at Daryl, they both stiffened at the sound of crunching gravel outside.

 

“There they are. I knew ‘em pigs’d be here any minute,” Merle seemed eerily calm as he spoke, placing his hands on his hips as he looked out the front window at the two police cars that had pulled into the drive.

 

Peering through the gap in Merle’s arm, Daryl watched as two officers exited their vehicles and looked up at the decaying old house. Wincing, Daryl remembered when the police and fire truck had been in the driveway only a few years ago. Approaching the house, the few onlookers who noticed him gave him that look like they knew something he didn’t. Watching the flames lick at the windows on the left hand side of the house and the smoke filtering out he knew his mom was gone. Daryl shook his head to stop the memory from flooding his mind. He knew where thinking like that would get him.

 

“You need ta git ya’self outta here now, Daryl,” ordered Merle.

 

“What’d ya do it for?” Daryl asked angrily. “You just got home six months ago!”

 

“Don’t matter,” Merle said shrugging. “It’s what I gotta do.”

 

“Is not. That motorcycle club don’t want you. I don’t know why you keep doing stuff fer ‘em,” Daryl spat exasperated. Merle was always coming and going. Since Merle was a kid he had been fascinated with the Rebel Angels motorcycle club. He had been trying unsuccessfully to get them to initiate him for years now. Daryl was sure the fire had been another attempt at this.

 

“Yeah, whadda you know?” Merle glowered at Daryl. “Now git the hell outta here and don’t gimme any lip. Go on! Out the back.”

 

“Don’t matter if I’m ‘ere or not. They don’t want me,” Daryl cut back at Merle. Truth be told, he’d rather not be in the house at all, but sometimes Daryl just felt like fighting back at Merle.

 

“Well I don’t know if they’re gonna wanna poke around here or not an’ I don’t want ‘em asking you no questions. No reason for you ta hafta deal with them. You didn’t do nothin’,” the last sentence came out roughly as if Merle was trying to hide his true meaning. Daryl had to admit that when Merle _was_ actually around, he did protect him from as much as he could. Daryl nodded and Merle clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Alright, now. Out the back,” he gestured to the backdoor through the dirty kitchen and pushed Daryl slightly in that direction.

 

The toe of Daryl’s right shoe caught a crack in the old wooden floors and he had to reach out for the kitchen counter to catch himself. Righting himself, he chanced a look back at Merle, who had opened the front door and was in the process of walking onto the porch, laughing loudly. You could always count on Merle to laugh in the face of authority.

 

Daryl jumped down the concrete steps that led from the back door to the yard. He crept around the back side of the house and came to a stop at the edge. Flattening himself against the wooden boards that held the house together, Daryl looked out at the yard and all of the odd and end pieces of junk and scrap that lay there. Sheets of tin roofing, broken pieces of plywood, and his Granddaddy’s old farming equipment littered the yard that was in serious need of a mowing. The sound of Merle’s raucous laughter brought Daryl back to the gravity of the situation that was unfolding.

 

Peeking around the corner, he saw that Merle was standing in the driveway now, level with the two policemen. He stretched his empty hands upwards, showing he was unarmed.

 

“Now, Merle, we don’t want no trouble. We’ve come to take ya in,” one mustachioed officer said, obviously experienced in the trouble that this young man could cause.

 

“I’m doing yer job for ya, officers. See? I ain’t armed. I know what yer here for,” Merle said in a soft voice, laced with his own brand of poison.

 

Daryl watched as Merle side stepped the officers and scanned the back yard. Merle was looking for any sign of Daryl while ensuring that they kept their focus on himself.

 

The sound of an all too familiar vehicle approaching and making the gravel pop made Daryl flinch, eyes darting to Merle, who had finally spotted him. They exchanged a meaningful look. God, this situation was going from bad to worse and Daryl wanted to flee but felt rooted to the ground.

 

“Goddammit, you Dixon scum just don’t know when to quit,” the other younger officer scoffed, shaking his head as he jerked Merle’s hands behind him to cuff him.

 

Daryl could feel his body begin to tremble with fear as he watched his father cut the engine of the truck. Hooded hazel eyes with dark circles underneath peered at the situation through the windshield. Pushing the side of the house with his left hand, Daryl had to stop himself from running away as he stood transfixed on Will Dixon’s tall muscular frame, not unlike Merle’s, exiting the vehicle. His long, dirty blond hair had partially shaken loose from the low ponytail he wore it in. Will took a moment to drain the contents of an unknown canned beverage, most likely beer, in a koozie before tossing it into the truck bed, still sizing up the police.

 

“The hell’s this?” Will slurred, slamming the door to his pickup. “The fuck you doin’ here, _Officer Benson_?” he asked mockingly. Will had no patience for anyone, especially cops and he had a specific hatred of Benson, the mustachioed officer. By no luck of the draw, he was the officer that always got called when there were problems at the Dixon house. He had taken nearly every member of the Dixon family to jail on more than one occasion.

 

“We’ve come to collect your son, Will. Seems he burned down Mr. Springer’s bar over on Callahan,” Benson replied.

 

“Piece o’ shit’s what he is. Fuck, I don’ care what ya do wit’ ‘im,” Will stood as close as he possibly could to Merle when he said this, swaying slightly.

 

Coldness and hate was evident in Merle’s expression even from where Daryl stood several yards away. Quickly glancing at Daryl, Merle jerked his head to the right, signaling him to leave just before he looked Will directly in the eyes and head-butted him with all his might.

 

Will staggered backwards before hurling himself towards the handcuffed Merle, who impressively stood his ground. He laughed and Daryl couldn’t tell whose blood was on his face.

 

Daryl took the opportunity to make a run for the woods behind the house. Everyone was surely too preoccupied to notice him now. He stopped just as he reached the tree line and continued to watch the scuffle from behind a tree.

 

“I oughtta kill you,” roared Will as he began to pummel Merle against the back of the police car.

 

Officer Benson seemed to sigh inwardly before breaking the father and son apart.

 

“Don’t make it worse, Will!” he said, shoving the drunken man back towards the house. “You want us to take you in too?”

 

Will was red in the face and breathing hard, but seemed to understand that he was on dangerous ground with the law. He huffed loudly, running his bloodied hand through the stubble on his chin and walked up the wooden steps that led to the porch.

 

“Don’t I have someplace ta be, officer?” Merle asked, the fight in him never diminished. “We done wastin’ time here?”

 

“Yeah, Merle,” Benson said tiredly as he put Merle in the back of his car.

 

 The front screen door popped as it swung shut and Daryl heard his father yelling for him.

 

“Boy! Where you get to?”

 

Daryl took that as his cue to leave. He would put as much distance between himself and the house as he possibly could. Daryl did not want to be the one who took the punishment for wounding his dad’s pride, not today.

 

* * *

 

Too many times to count, Daryl had taken this path through the woods to escape his father. What was once a very faint trail was now a well-worn path darting in and out of the trees. The woods provided Daryl with something that was otherwise absent in his life: peace. He felt that here, among the trees and the occasional deer or squirrel, he could relax.

 

When he was younger, school had been a place of escape and peace as well. However, Daryl had quickly learned that abuse could and would more than likely follow you anywhere as he was teased relentlessly. He was teased because of his clothes, because he was poor, and because the other students’ parents evidently told them who he was and not to associate themselves with redneck trash like Daryl Dixon. A few students had even gone so far as to tease him about his mother’s death and the circumstances that surrounded it. True, she would have won no awards for best mother, but it still stung. Cruelty was something that Daryl had experienced from almost everyone he had ever known.

 

Merle was the only one who ever really cared for Daryl. Sure, Daryl thought, Merle could be cruel in his own way at times, but he was also the only one to step up and protect him from anything. Well, almost anything. Daryl knew without a doubt that Merle had taken the beatings from their father well before Daryl was even thought of. What he wasn’t sure of was if Merle knew he wasn’t the only one to receive them. Whenever Merle wasn’t around to be a punching bag of relief for Will Dixon’s problems, Daryl was the substitute.

 

Daryl felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Angry, he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to give himself a new pain to focus on. There was no time to feel sorry for himself. This was life and the way it would always be, he just had to grow up and accept that. He guessed that that was the kind of attitude that Merle had always tried to instill in him. That and other beliefs that Daryl wasn’t so sure were the best, but what choice did he have? The situation usually went, “Merle’s way or no way at all.”   

 

“Ain’t nobody ever gonna care ‘bout you but me, baby brother,” Merle’s words resonated within him always. He was right. As messed up as that sentence was, Daryl knew that he was right.

 

So he had done what Merle had told him to and escaped the house before he could be found by either the cops or their father. And what was he supposed to do now? Go back? No way.

 

Looking around at his surroundings, Daryl realized he had strayed from the familiar path he usually took through the woods. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he had walked himself very deep into the forest, much farther than he normally would venture. The path he had so often frequented led in a sort of semi-circle through the trees, with only a few small hills and dips in the land. Wherever he was now seemed different. The air smelled damp and he could swear he heard the sound of running water.

 

Following the sound of water, Daryl was soon standing before a small creek complete with its own tiny waterfall. He quickly thought to himself that it was a pretty sight before another internal voice told him that he was a pussy for even thinking that.

 

Hands on his hips, Daryl took in the scene. He was lost, he knew that for sure. But finding his way back to the house was not something he was ready to do. At least here in the woods he was alone and relatively safe. Digging in his pants pocket, he dug out his bone handled pocket knife that Merle had bet him to steal from the bait and tackle shop in town. Merle was always pushing him like that, claiming that it would make a man out of him. At least he knew how to defend himself with his knife in the event someone came across him out here.

 

Another plus, Daryl thought as he settled himself on a large rock beside the creek, was that now he had access to fresh water. Looked like he had found a new home, at least for a little while.

 


	2. Chapter 2

A painfully rumbling stomach woke Daryl on his third day away from home. Crawling out from under the bank of the creek, he had to shield his eyes from the sunlight reflecting on the water. From the sun’s location in the sky, Daryl guessed it was about ten o’clock and wondered how it was that he had slept in so late, especially since he had been sleeping on rocks and dirt. His stomach growled again, forcing him to remember what had roused him in the first place.

 

Since setting up “camp”, if a small fire could be called that, all the food Daryl had managed to find was a cluster of mushrooms that he considered safe enough to eat. They had tasted horrible, but he had to eat and the creek was too small to house any fish. While he had watched several squirrels that would have made a fine meal scurry up and down the trees, he couldn’t exactly run after them with a pocket knife.

 

Daryl had spent the better part of the previous day searching the immediate area around the creek for anything to help make his little setup more comfortable or practical. All he had turned up were some old glass Coca Cola bottles and a couple rusted out cans. Someone else had called this creek bed home once upon a time. If he weren’t so determined to stay away from home, Daryl would have felt discouraged. He had wanted this place to be somewhere that he could call home for a little while or maybe somewhere he could run to when things got bad at home. But if water was the only resource available, there wouldn’t be much to sustain him here. A feeling of desperation began to creep into his belly along with the intense hunger that was already there.

 

Daryl stood stock still for a moment, scanning his surroundings for food or just anything that might make the creek a good place for him to stay.  The creek gurgled along its little path into the as yet unknown part of the forest. The bright green leaves of the trees swayed lightly with the late September breeze. A catbird on the tree branch to his right called, bobbing its head up and down.

 

Suddenly, and to his relief, he heard the unmistakable croak of a frog. Why hadn’t he thought of frogs yesterday? They were easy enough to catch and he could even cook them over his fire.

 

Fishing his knife out of his pocket, he pulled it open and followed the croaking sounds until he spotted not one, but two medium sized frogs sitting on a rock. With one swift motion, Daryl’s pocket knife had stabbed the closest frog, pinning it to the rock where it sat. Realizing the danger, the other frog hopped away. Not wanting to miss out on a meal, Daryl yanked his knife away from the dead frog to chase the other. Catching it proved an easy task and Daryl was soon skewering them onto a stick to roast over the fire like some kind of backwoods shish-kabob.

 

His meal finished and his belly a little fuller, Daryl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked in the direction that he knew he had approached the creek from. Having something to eat seemed to have made his mind a bit sharper, making it easier to process his situation. The only thing waiting for him back home was his dad. Merle was gone and for who knew how long this time. Being lost in the woods was definitely not the most ideal place to be, but without Merle, Daryl would be left to handle their dad on his own. Dealing with him was not high on Daryl’s list of favorite things, so the only other option was to find a different route.

 

The fact still remained that Daryl was lost, plain and simple. The last thing that he wanted to spend his time doing was walking himself in hapless circles.

 

A tall oak tree stood a few feet ahead of him. Squinting from the sunlight, Daryl looked to the top of the tree while he chewed on his thumb. It would be a good place to try to get his bearings. Maybe he could even spot a road or a building, some kind of landmark. It didn’t look too hard to climb. A knot sticking out midway up the trunk looked to be the only obstacle that might trip him up. If a branch had been in its place it might’ve been easier to get up. Shouldn’t be a problem, he thought. Daryl had climbed many a tree. They were a good place to escape for a while. That is until he had to come back down again.

 

A running start gave Daryl the momentum to jump up and reach the lowest hanging branch. Gripping it tight with both hands, he walked his feet up the trunk until he was hanging from the tree branch with all four of his limbs. Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he reached up and placed a hand on the knot he had noticed from the ground. The knot didn’t stick out very far, but he was sure he could get a foot hold on it and push himself farther up into the tree. He stood up carefully, not wanting to lose his balance, and put his arms around the tree trunk a foot or so above the knot. With one foot on the knot, Daryl pushed off of with his other but lost his footing and slipped. Clawing at the tree trunk proved useless as he slid unceremoniously all the way down, scraping the inside of both arms along the way.

 

“Shit!” he hissed as he awkwardly stood up, taking in the raw red of his arms. “Damn tree!” Daryl kicked the tree as if to retaliate for the damage it had caused him.

 

So much for a bird’s eye view of his location.

 

The only landmark that Daryl had come across so far was the creek. It had to lead somewhere, didn’t it?

 

If he followed the creek, it might just lead him out of the woods or at least somewhere a little more abundant with supplies. Glancing at the remains of his fire and the underside of the creek bed that he had called home for the last few days, Daryl didn’t feel too bad about leaving it. While the frogs and mushrooms had given him _some_ energy, he would have to relocate if this was going to be a long-lasting venture, this living in the woods stuff.

 

There would be several more hours of sunlight to light the way and since he was following the creek, there would still be plenty of fresh water. This plan was starting to sound better and better the more Daryl thought about it.

 

Daryl glared back in the direction he knew to be the way he had come from home and that seemed to settle it. Nothing back home, nothing in the creek bed to keep him there any longer.

 

With a determined huff, Daryl turned and began to walk alongside the creek as it meandered deeper into the woods.

* * *

 

 The setting sun cast an orange glow across the leaves as it began to set. Daryl had walked beside the creek, noticing how its size kept shrinking until it had retreated back into the ground altogether. Without the constant sound of running water, Daryl had to admit that he really _felt_ lost now. The feeling of no direction had alluded him up until this point. As tough as he tried to be, he allowed himself to really feel like a kid now. While the sun set farther along, so went his chances of food and shelter for the night. What was more, his scathed arms hurt like hell and were sure to get infected if he didn’t find some place with medicine.

 

It was no use to just stand around and pout, so he continued to walk. If he didn’t find anything by the time it got dark, well…he’d get to that when he had to.

 

A sound up ahead, like crunching leaves, caught Daryl’s attention. Could be nothing, could be as simple as just a deer, but Daryl didn’t want to take any chances. He armed himself with his pocket knife and edged forward slowly, making sure to be as silent as possible.

 

The sounds seemed to be getting farther away instead of closer, but his curiosity was piqued. Daryl hid quietly behind a tree and then chanced a look around it, hoping to catch whatever had made the noise.

 

There was a small clearing there, but no creatures or enemies were to be seen. Several small bushes were clumped together in the clearing. All those hunting trips with Uncle Jess told him that they looked like elderberry bushes and Daryl’s stomach growled at the prospect of having food.

 

Rushing forward, Daryl grabbed one small branch and began looking it over for any berries. However, out of the five bushes he checked over, not a single elderberry remained. Probably some deer’s favorite spot to grab a bite.

 

“That’s just great,” he thought, hoping the deer who had made off with a full belly was satisfied.

 

Shaking his head at his bad luck, Daryl looked in the direction he guessed the deer had headed in. Might as well go that way. It wasn’t like he had any other plans.

 

Keeping his pocket knife at the ready, Daryl crept on carefully through the trees, wary of whatever it was that had made the noise.

 

The surrounding trees were starting to appear black now as the sun was almost gone. Daryl felt a surge of panic go through him. This situation was starting to turn serious. It wasn’t so much that he minding being out in the woods after dark, but his arms felt like they were on fire and it took all of his willpower not to scratch at them.

 

Up ahead, Daryl thought he could make out the outline of a building. Finally! He had no idea what it could be, but he pressed forward hoping it was somewhere he could hole up for the night. With one last step, Daryl exited the forest and was standing before an old wooden shed.

 

Daryl stiffened as if paralyzed as he realized that this was not just some random shed in the middle of nowhere. This was someone’s property. He stepped to the right and didn’t have to look very hard to notice the enormous white farmhouse behind the shed. Daryl hadn’t ever seen a home large enough to fit several of his own inside it. He gaped up at it, unsure of what to do next. The owners were sure to have everything he needed, but a dirty injured boy stumbling out of the woods might not be the most welcome sight. In Daryl’s experience, people weren’t very nice, especially to him. He noticed the barn over his right shoulder and thought that it might make a good place to spend the night without being seen.

 

Daryl was just about to turn and walk towards the barn when one door of the shed creaked open. A woman with kind, but surprised pale green eyes and light brown braided hair stood in the doorway with a large white bowl full of elderberries. She seemed to falter for a moment at the sight of him before stepping out of the shed.

 

All Daryl could do was stare. How was he supposed to explain what he was doing? Before he could work out something to say, the woman approached him.

 

“Hi there,” she said warmly with a small wave. “You startled me!” There was a slight giggle in her voice, as if seeing him there wasn’t so unwelcome.

 

“S-sorry I…,” Daryl’s voice came out as a scratchy whisper and he hung his head in embarrassment. It had been hours since he had spoken aloud. Any minute now she would scream at him to get the hell off of her property, he just knew it.

 

“Honey, what happened to you?” The woman’s voice took a concerned tone as she finally seemed to have taken in Daryl’s appearance. She stuck the bowl in the crook of her arm and made to reach out for his scraped up arms.

 

Eyes wide, Daryl instantly took a step back to avoid her touch simply out of instinct. Concern was not something he was familiar with. Whenever someone reached out to him, the end result was always pain. Daryl thought he saw hurt flash behind the woman’s eyes and somehow he didn’t think her intention was to do anything but help.

 

She smiled warmly and said, “Looks like ya hurt yourself. I could look at it, if ya want.”

 

Daryl glanced back at the woods and the thought of making a run for it briefly crossed his mind. That wouldn’t exactly make sense, but interacting with people was just a tricky subject for Daryl. Running away from help wouldn’t do him any good at all. He chanced a look back at the mysteriously kind woman and nodded, accepting her offer to inspect his wounds.

 

“Alright, let’s go up to the house and we’ll see about cleanin’ ya up,” she said with a motherly inflection in her voice as she turned towards the house.

 

Daryl would normally have turned tail and ran far, far away by now, but something he couldn’t quite place made him feel drawn to this place and the kind woman who was leading him to all of the things he had been searching for just minutes ago.

 

When they reached the back door she held it open, looking him over.

 

“What’s your name?” she asked.

 

He chewed his thumb, mumbled, “Daryl,” and then braced himself as if he expected her to tell him it was a stupid name.

 

“Well, Daryl, my name’s Josephine Greene, but _please_ just call me Jo. Nobody but my momma and daddy call me Josephine,” again she had a giggle in her voice.

 

Holding his breath, Daryl walked cautiously into the farmhouse kitchen with Jo, hoping that for once in his life, things might be looking up.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl waited quietly in the farmhouse kitchen while Jo went to find her first aid kit elsewhere in the house. It felt strange being in a house that was so unlike his own. The fixture overhead illuminated the bright white of the walls and the gleaming countertops, while fresh herbs in a planter on the window sill gave the kitchen a pleasantly fragrant smell. This home was obviously well cared for where his house was just left to its own devices, much like himself.

 

He couldn’t help but feel out of place. Daryl’s house was all peeling wallpaper and uneven floorboards. His own house gave off the undeniable air of neglect any way you turned, but this house, Daryl could tell, was a _home_ in every sense of the word. That warm, comforting feeling he suspected other people were supposed to get when they came home was probably something that Jo – and whoever else lived here – experienced from living here. That comfort and peace was something that Daryl had only glimpsed _outside_ of his house, off camping in the woods alone.

 

An inner voice told him that he didn’t belong here and that he didn’t deserve Jo’s help. Daryl suddenly felt like an unwelcome ant on someone’s picnic blanket.

 

His stomach gave a nervous lurch and the need to get sick overwhelmed him. He could almost hear Merle laughing at him as the awful thought of getting sick all over Jo’s pristine kitchen entered his mind. Not wanting to chance looking for the bathroom, getting lost and sick in the process, Daryl rushed to push the screen door open and managed to make it a few feet into the backyard before doubling over.

 

He dry heaved pathetically beside a patch of black-eyed susans. Daryl had eaten nothing for hours and wasn’t surprised when nothing came out.

 

 _The hell’s a’matter with ya?_ That voice in his head was back, taunting him. _Little Miss ‘Green Acres’ got you in fits? Pussy. Since when does a Dixon need help from anyone?_ A low guttural sound escaped Daryl’s throat as he straightened up, resolving to tell Jo that he didn’t need her help. He could take care of himself just like he always had.

 

“Daryl, you alright?”  Jo had appeared at the back door with the first aid kit. Even in the growing darkness, Daryl could see the genuine look of concern on Jo’s face. He knew what his reaction should have been, if he was some normal kid: accept her help. But Daryl was not normal and he knew it all too well. The sick feeling he had had was quickly curdling into sour resentment at the sight of Jo. Jo – with her nice, big house and the easy way she seemed to have with people – represented all those ‘normal’ things he never could have. Daryl could feel the blood boiling in his veins at the thought.

 

“If ya wanna come back inside I can get ya fixed up,” Jo called, wagging the first aid kit at him.

 

Furrowing his brow in frustration, Daryl took a defensive step forward and replied harshly, “Ya don’t even know me! What ya wanna help me for?”

 

He watched her face fall briefly, looking him over and taking in all this new aggression he seemed to have towards her. When she looked back up at his face, hand on her hip, there was a sudden fierceness behind her eyes and all that Southern charm.

 

“Ya think I can’t recognize when someone needs a hand?” she sassed back, gesturing at him.

 

Daryl didn’t like the idea that he looked like someone in need, like he was one to be pitied. He got enough of that from teachers at school and other people around town that knew his last name.

 

He did his best to look threatening as he took a few steps toward Jo, coming to a stop halfway in the squares of light from the kitchen that fell across the yard, casting his face in a half light.

 

“I could be dangerous!” Daryl barked, pointing his finger at himself.

 

“I’m sure you could!” Jo retorted with a smirk on her face.

 

She was not reacting the way Daryl had wanted her to. His intent was to scare her off, not have her mock him. He dug his bone handled pocket knife out of his pocket and held it up between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“I have a knife! I coulda tried to hurt you. But you just let me on in ya house like it wa’n’t nothing!”

 

Daryl could swear he heard her lightly scoff at his words as she descended the back steps. Jo was standing before him now with a full-fledged smile on her face.

 

“First of all, if you’s gonna use that knife, you woulda by now. And second,” Jo grabbed the knife right out of Daryl’s hand, pulled the blade open, and continued, “ya woulda at least opened it.”

 

Daryl scowled at Jo, feeling embarrassed and confused all at once.

 

Jo reached up and quickly pulled a leaf from Daryl’s hair before he could jerk away from her. “You’re a mess, boy. Now get in this house and _let me help you_!” Jo ordered, handing him his knife back.

 

Daryl allowed his glare to soften. Scaring her off not only failed to work, but evidently gave Jo more of a reason to want to help him. This woman was so trusting, it threw him off. She somehow had the ability to infuriate him and make him feel welcome all at the same time. She was way beyond anyone he had ever met and in some tiny way, had garnered a sliver of respect from Daryl.

 

“Yes’m,” Daryl finally agreed as he made his way into the house for the second time tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

“You from Peachtree?” asked Jo as she took a Q-tip dipped in peroxide to Daryl’s left arm.

 

Daryl winced up at her over the dining room table. The pain in his arms wasn’t worse than that what he had felt from one of his father’s beatings, but it was an annoying pain, like a mosquito bite that had been scratched too much.

 

Jo glanced up at Daryl’s silence.

 

“C’mon, talkin’ll get your mind off the pain,” she drawled.

 

Shifting uncomfortably, Daryl answered quietly, “Yeah, but outside it a good ways.”

 

“How’d you get out this far? I’m guessing by the state of ya that you weren’t out on a picnic.”

 

By no means was Daryl contemplating pouring his heart out to this woman and letting her in on the whole awful story of his past few days, but he felt some strange pull to her. _‘Cause you ain’t gotta momma no more,_ the voice said from a dark place in Daryl’s mind, where any good memories he still had were charred black and smelled of smoke.

 

Peering over at Jo fussing over his arms with antibiotic cream across the table, Daryl tried to find the right words to explain what had happened.

 

“My brother…got in some trouble an’ I left. There’s woods behind my house. I go back ‘ere a lot but, went too far I guess,” he managed to tell her. He decided to keep the dirtier details to himself.

 

“Who’s your brother?” Jo asked innocently, placing a clean white bandage over the inside of Daryl’s left arm.

 

This was what Daryl had known was bound to happen – he knew it was only a matter of time before she started asking the questions that would give her an idea of who he was. Family was what either gave you prominence or kept you down on a much lower level in Peachtree. Daryl knew that his Granddaddy had owned a small feed and supply store way back, but his father had squandered whatever money and slight social standing that had afforded their family long ago. Jo could only be asking her question innocently, but once she knew who his brother was, she’d know who he was and then she would be done with him. No respectable person had any dealings with the Dixon’s.

 

“Merle Dixon,” Daryl admitted tiredly, closing his eyes to what was sure to be a negative reaction from Jo.

 

"Never heard of ‘im,” she said flatly, gesturing at him to put his other arm on the table. “Gimme your other arm.”

 

When Daryl failed to move, Jo turned her pale green eyes upon him again and found him staring at her incredulously.

 

“I ain’t from Coweta County, Daryl,” Jo explained. “I moved down here from up in Cherokee County to take care of my granny ‘fore she died. Whoever your brother is and whatever he did, don’t matter to me.”

 

Relieved, Daryl placed his right arm palm up on the table, ready for Jo to continue her work. He could feel her eyes on him, perhaps still trying to figure him out, but he couldn’t look at her. As emotionally stunted as he was, Daryl was sure her brush off of Merle’s transgressions was just her way of trying to make him feel more comfortable. Strangely enough, the fact that Jo was being so nice to him made Daryl feel terribly guilty. 

 

With a sniff, Jo started to disinfect the pink and red scratches that covered a good portion of the inside of Daryl’s right arm.

 

* * *

 

 

They fell into a somewhat comfortable silence while she worked. Daryl was watching a moth flit closer and closer to the light fixture above the table when she finally placed the last bit of bandage over his arm.

 

“Ya know today’s Thursday, right?” Jo asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

 

Her question caught him off guard and he looked at her with both eyebrows raised, not sure what she meant.

 

“I mean, ya been out in the woods for a while, right?” At Daryl’s slow nod she continued, “I know you’re supposed to be in school. Ain’t ya had anybody wondering where ya been?”

 

Her tone sounded slightly exasperated, but not with him, more like she was frustrated at the situation. Daryl thought she seemed like the kind of person who would really get upset if she knew that he probably really _didn’t_ have _anyone_ who was looking for him. That fact alone should be enough to upset him, and while it really did, he had become so used to the neglect and the beatings that he had numbed his feelings toward it. It was what it was. Letting Jo in on that would just be cruel.

 

Daryl’s silence was broken only by the sound of the moth pinging against the light fixture above, a fruitless effort to make some escape. He ground his teeth together, trying to come up with an answer for her. “No, I mean – well,” Daryl stood up, subconsciously searching for a way out of the question and the weight of the real answer.

 

The low rumble of an approaching vehicle outside suddenly interrupted their conversation, saving him from answering, but causing Daryl to feel that sick feeling he had had in his stomach rise again. For one horrible, fleeting moment he imagined his dad had found him. Jo let out a strangled sound as she darted to the front door, began to open the exterior screen door, but halted her efforts to get out as she glanced back at Daryl. She looked as if she was unsure of what to do, but as for what was actually going on, Daryl had no clue.

 

"Just please wait here, alright?” Jo pleaded with him. From her tone Daryl could tell that something was wrong. The screen door slapped the frame as she stepped out onto the front porch.

 

Daryl couldn’t help but step closer to see what was going on. That truck didn’t make the same sounds as his dad’s thankfully, so that couldn’t be what had Jo looking so worried. She had left the interior door open in her haste and he could hear the crickets and frogs calling as well as the truck door opening and closing gently.

 

Peering out the screen door, Daryl saw a rather large man walking toward Jo, who was standing at the bottom of the porch steps.

 

“Otis,” Jo began, “I’m so sorry. What – what happened _this_ time?” she gestured at the truck.

 

The large man, Otis, swallowed and then answered, “Lee told him he’d had enough and he needed to leave. That made Hershel mad I guess and he started yelling at Lee, threw his glass at ‘im. They were gonna call the law on ‘im, but I stepped in. Told ‘im I’d take Hershel home. I – well – I figured Hershel’d be there tonight and that’s why I stopped in.” Otis seemed to have a hard time looking at Jo as he explained his story.

 

Daryl had finally noticed the man who must have been Hershel slumped over against the window in the passenger side of the truck. Jo sighed heavily and rubbed her temples in what looked like serious frustration.

 

“I’m so _sorry_ you had to do this again, but _thank_ you for bringing him home. I’d have had to get him out of county in the morning if you hadn’t been there,” she thanked Otis with a warm pat on the shoulder.

 

Otis half-smiled, half-grimaced at Jo’s words. “I know. Want me to bring ‘im inside?”

 

“Yeah, but don’t think ya gotta be gentle with ‘im,” Jo answered, walking with Otis to the passenger side of the truck.

 

Jo opened the door to the truck and Otis quickly caught Hershel before he could fall out, but the sudden movement woke the dozing, drunken man. He blearily looked up at them before slipping out of Otis’ grip with an angry swipe of his fist.

 

“Le’ go a’me,” he slurred, taking an unsteady step towards the house.

 

The sight of another drunk man should have been something that Daryl was used to, but upon seeing him, he felt dread heavy in his belly. The urge to run in that moment had only been so strong when facing his own father. Watching Hershel stumble slowly up the drive followed closely by Jo and Otis, his blue shirt half untucked and dark hair disheveled, he felt like in some way, it really was his father who had come for him in that truck.

 

Transfixed, Daryl stood at the door. What would he do when Hershel reached the door? He was obviously related to Jo somehow and taking care of two people, one injured and one extremely intoxicated, was not an ideal situation. Daryl’s heartbeat pounded away in his ears – drumming faster and faster. He needed to get out. This was almost exactly the type of setting he had run from in the first place. But running out on Jo right now didn’t feel like the right thing to do, however skewed Daryl’s moral system was. All he could do was wait and hope that he would pass unnoticed – maybe he’d slip into the corner and be forgotten for a moment. That _had_ worked for him in the past after all. 

 

Jo, so absorbed in Hershel, had not noticed Daryl watching everything unfold. Hershel came to a stop on the top step of the porch, his blue eyes boring directly into Daryl’s. What passed behind them, Daryl couldn’t tell through the screen of the door. But Hershel promptly passed out, having exerted his inebriated body to its limit. Daryl let out a breath of relief and it was then that Jo looked up, realizing that he had seen everything.

 

Otis reached down and picked Hershel up easily. His size compared to Hershel’s was undeniable. Jo opened the screen door, Daryl backed away towards the fireplace, and Otis stepped inside and then turned to Jo with Hershel in his arms.

 

“Where should I put him?” he asked. “Upstairs?”

 

Jo took a steadying breath as she entered the house, looking from Otis to Daryl, obviously embarrassed but also _so_ tired. When Daryl showed no signs of shock at Otis holding the unconscious Hershel in the middle of the living room that had been so quiet only minutes ago, she seemed to snap out of her mortification.

 

“No, I think the couch will suit him just fine.”

 

And just like that her sass was back.

 

With a nod, Otis placed Hershel carefully on the couch. Once he had him settled, Otis glanced up at Daryl and over at Jo again, confused at his presence.

 

Daryl had always found social interaction awkward, but this one had to take the cake. He found himself looking upwards to search for the moth again, anywhere but at Jo’s face.

 

Jo saw the exchange and cleared her throat quietly. “Otis this is Daryl. He’s lost his way from home.”

 

Chancing a glance at Otis, Daryl saw him nod in understanding.

 

“’S pretty easy to do out in these parts,” Otis said good-naturedly, filling the silence.

 

Daryl nodded mutely, unsure of what to say.

 

Hershel grunted in his sleep, reminding everyone that this was not a social visit but something more serious.

 

Daryl cleared his throat, remembering that his arms were all fixed up and that he really had no more reason to be here. He got the feeling that he had overstayed his welcome, if there had ever been one.

 

“I need to try to find my way back. Thanks for…your help,” he said, watching Hershel snore softly from the couch.

 

Jo followed his eyes and pursed her lips.

 

“How are you gonna get back? I’m not sending ya out in the dark,” Jo was still worried about Daryl despite everything that had just happened. He knew she hadn’t forgotten her last question: was anyone looking for him?

 

“I can take you back to town, if that’s where you need to go,” Otis spoke up.

 

“Oh, yeah, would ya, Otis?” Jo asked hopefully, her eyes lighting up. “I can’t have Daryl just running off back in the woods again! That’s how he got out this far in the first place.”

 

What was it with strangers helping him today? Daryl had never heard of such. No one he knew would just help you out without needing something in return. But then again, the people he knew weren’t exactly the kind of people you would want to know to begin with.

 

Jo watched him seem to struggle with the idea of more help.

 

“It’s alright, Daryl,” she said. “Otis is a good friend. He’ll take you back home.”

 

Home. Yeah, that’s where he wanted to go alright. Daryl knew he would have to eventually go back. He had been trying to forget all about that stupid, piece-of-shit house and who lived there to no avail since he left. There really was no escaping it. Even when he was gone, it’s like he took it with him. Having missed almost a week of school, he wasn’t too sure that he’d be able to fake sick to his teachers this time. Going back was inevitable. He would never be able to outrun what waited for him when he returned.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, giving Otis a once over. He looked like a nice enough guy, maybe a bit on the dumb farmer end of the spectrum, but that was better than some criminal from his own neighborhood.

 

“Well,” Jo gave Daryl a fond look, smiling despite the events of the evening, “if ya get lost again, I’ll be here. You stay outta trouble, too!”

 

Daryl managed what he hoped resembled a smile, but looked more like he was in pain as he walked out the front door with Otis.

 

* * *

 

 

The ride home with Otis was silent besides the quiet directions Daryl gave that would take him five blocks away from his home. Littleville was the small neighborhood he lived in just outside Peachtree City and it had the reputation of being the home for most of the delinquents in the area. By directing Otis to the street just before the railroad crossing, he hoped to save himself a bit of embarrassment. He was not proud of where he came from. Sure, Dixon blood ran thick, but at some point, Daryl had to wonder when it was enough.

 

“Who’s Hershel?” he blurted out just as they came to a stop. Daryl couldn’t keep the question to himself any longer.

 

Otis jumped at the question. The ride had been so quiet, maybe he had forgotten Daryl was even in the truck with him.

 

“Oh, he’s Miss Jo’s husband,” he replied. “Yeah, they got married ‘bout…three years ago in June. He’s lucky to have landed her. She’s a real sweetheart.”

 

Daryl stared at the bandages on his arms. If Jo hadn’t helped him out, he knew he would have ended up sleeping in the barn that night and who knows when he would have returned home. She was a sweetheart, for sure. Hershel on the other hand, probably couldn’t be called the same.

 

The blinking red lights of the railroad crossing and whistle of an approaching train disturbed his thoughts. “Thanks,” Daryl mumbled, opening the door and exiting the truck.

 

“Yep,” was Otis’ ‘you’re welcome’ and he drove away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Daryl took the back door inside the house, knowing that it was always unlocked and was one of the only doors in the whole house that didn’t squeak like it was coming off the hinges when opened. It was late and Daryl hoped that his dad was asleep by now.

 

The power was back on now, thank God. That was bound to improve Will’s mood as well as provide hot water for a bath and a cold fridge for something to eat.

 

Stepping gingerly on the dingy linoleum in the kitchen, Daryl peeked around the corner into the living room to find his father asleep on the couch, an empty liquor bottle resting in his lap. Since the fire had burned the bedroom his parents sometimes shared as husband and wife, Will had taken up residence on the couch. The remnants of the fire were still visible from the warped bedroom door and singe marks on the ceiling. If Daryl hadn’t harbored so much hatred for him, he would have felt sorry for him. Will had to have loved their momma on some level, even with all the arguments and fights.

 

Jesus, why was he thinking about this? Satisfied that Will was soundly asleep, Daryl opened the fridge and made a bologna sandwich in record time. A glass of milk would have made the meal, but whiskey was more important than milk in this household. Daryl retreated to the bedroom that he once shared with Merle, too afraid that the noise of running water would wake his father to get in the bath. He’d waited this long, he could just wait until the morning. Maybe he would even get cleaned up and go to school tomorrow.

 

The last several days had been a trip, for sure. Daryl didn’t think he was going to make it out of the woods alive, but maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. Who would miss him? At that, Daryl suddenly thought of Jo and all the unexpected kindness she had shown him. No one, _no one,_ was ever nice to Daryl Dixon. All he had ever known was meanness and indifference, even from his own mother. But Jo didn’t even know him – didn’t even care that Merle was no good. She acted like just because he had a brother that did wrong, didn’t necessarily mean that he himself was.

 

Daryl was unsure of the feeling, but he felt a fondness for Jo. She had helped him out more than she knew. He got the idea in his head to try and mark the path from his house to Jo’s through the woods one day. Daryl didn’t have any friends, but liked to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he could call Jo a friend.

 

Daryl settled on his twin bed, relishing in the taste of his sandwich, his eyes settling on the bed that took up the other side of the small room. Merle hadn’t shared the room with Daryl for some years now. When Merle was out of trouble, he never slept at home at night. He thought it was safer to stay up or be out, opting to crash at a friends’ house or sleep in the daytime when no one was home. Merle would stay up so Daryl could sleep safely, while not always soundly. The sounds of Merle and Will Dixon fighting was enough to keep anyone up for miles around, but knowing that he was there to protect him did allow Daryl _some_ peace of mind.

 

But Merle was gone now. He was left to fend for himself – again. It wasn’t the first time, probably wouldn’t be the last and Daryl couldn’t help but hold a silent grudge against Merle for that. Swallowing that fact and his last bite of sandwich, Daryl laid back on the bed with a quiet groan and soon drifted off.


	4. Chapter 4

The loud scraping of metal and muffled voices woke Daryl from the first night’s sleep he’d had in a bed since Merle’s arrest. The fog of sleep sat heavy, but the sting of the air on his wounded arms quickly pulled him out of it. Jo’s carefully placed bandages hung limp and useless from his arms. Without opening his eyes, Daryl ripped the bandages off and threw them to the floor. What good did they do now? He sat up groggily, blinking at the pale light filtering in through the window that heralded the morning and meant – for the first time in a while – school.

 

Looking down at his clothes, he scoffed and pushed himself off the bed. The worn out jeans and ratty forest green t-shirt he had worn on his trek through the woods wouldn’t work. Normally, Daryl wouldn’t have cared, but these clothes had been out in the wilderness for three days and nights and did not smell presentable – even to him.

 

Daryl rifled through the pile of semi-clean clothes beside his bed while the voices and heavy footsteps outside his door continued. His dad’s voice was distinctly recognizable through the thin wall that separated Daryl’s room from the living room. The other voice was male, but not familiar. Having strangers in the house was pretty common, so he couldn’t really be phased by it.  

 

With a set of clean clothes tucked under his arm, Daryl leaned against the door frame and opened the door just wide enough so that he could gage where his dad was and if he could sneak over to the bathroom without being noticed.

 

The first thing Daryl noticed was the state of absolute disarray that was the living room. It was never clean and tidy – like homes were on TV – but the secondhand furniture and other junk that filled it still had its own place. But now, besides the TV, the living room was completely empty. Old newspapers and cigarette butts that had been hiding under the couch were now on full display, not to mention an incredible amount of dust. Curtains that were once white still hung on the windows, but it took the lack of furniture in the room for Daryl to notice how yellowed and decrepit they had become, barely hanging on to shade the window.

 

So all the furniture was gone, Daryl determined. That would explain the noise. But _why_ was it gone? He chanced a peek around the door frame, still searching for Will, but was relieved to hear his gravely tone and the mystery voice had moved outside.

 

Daryl stepped into the living room with the intention of making for the bathroom as quickly as possible. He couldn’t think of anything that he’d done to piss Will off, but Daryl tried to keep his interactions with his dad to a minimum. It was often the tiniest of things that would end up setting Will off. He was like a mine, easily tripped and equally as explosive. Just as Daryl was about to round the corner into the bathroom, something caught his eye.

 

Some stupid old print of a barn in an octagonal frame hung crookedly over the space where the couch had sat. Daryl wasn’t sure who had hung it or even how long it had been there, but looking at it now reminded him of the barn at Jo’s. It reminded him of how close he had come to sleeping in that barn, only to be rescued – if Daryl could even allow himself to use the word – by Jo. He pressed his forehead into the wall with his eyes still on the picture and tried to think of a way, or even a good reason, to go back.

 

There wasn’t one.

 

“You can’t have the goddamn TV!” Will spit out, snapping Daryl out of his reverie. Will was on the porch, probably about to open the door, his companion right behind him.

 

“Well, let’s load the rest of what you got then,” the other man said with a disgruntled sigh.

 

Daryl darted into the bathroom before he could be seen. The movement of the remaining furniture should be enough to keep both Will and his buddy occupied while he got cleaned up for school. Friends of Will’s would sometimes pick on Daryl too and Will would let them. Dixon taking up for his fellow Dixon failed in those moments.

 

* * *

 

 

 Daryl had to admit that washing away all that grime had done wonders for his mood. He would go to school and manage whatever damage control he had to when he got there. Teachers there weren’t blind to his home life with the way he missed and his behavior when he _was_ present, but he doubted they knew enough or had the gall to do anything if they did. Daryl figured that the teachers who had been “lucky” enough to have Merle in their class years ago knew to leave the Dixon’s well enough alone by now.

 

Just before he had drifted off last night, Daryl had decided to mark a path from his house to Jo’s once school was done with. Thank god it was the weekend because it was sure to require some trial and error. Getting lost the first time was a mistake, but he’d make sure not to do it again. There was a map of the county around somewhere – maybe in a closet or drawer. Daryl was no genius, but he was confident he could work out where Jo’s farm was if he looked at the map long and hard enough.

 

Peeking into the living room once again, Daryl reasoned it was safe enough to leave the bathroom. The voices and scuffling of feet had moved inside and out while he had been in the bath and from the sound of it, they had moved the beds out of his room. His room was bound to look almost as bad as the living room.

 

The bedroom door was open and – just as Daryl had thought – his room was just as empty of furniture as the other. His clothes and things had been unceremoniously dumped from the narrow dresser to the floor. The air conditioning unit had been ripped from one of the windows and a breeze filled the small room, making the Playboy centerfold of Michele Drake Merle had pinned to the wall years ago flutter. Daryl was so used to it now that he barely gave it a second glance, but that hadn’t been the case when it first went up on the wall. Merle had put it there after bringing home the magazine, having stolen it out of some deep pocketed snob’s mailbox. He reached out at it now, remembering how it got there.

 

“Miss May, get your pretty tits up on this wall!” Merle had proclaimed, ripping out the centerfold and tossing the magazine to Daryl. “Don’t she just make the room?” Merle had laughed almost bitterly. “You keep that, boy,” Merle said as he pointed to the magazine in Daryl’s lap and turned to leave. “Make your balls drop.”

 

Merle and his dumbass. Daryl scoffed at the memory. His older brother seemed to think his life’s mission was to make a man out of him, make him tough. No room for pussies here. Not that Daryl was complaining about having naked women on the wall. A whole stack of those magazines used to lay beside Merle’s bed, but they were gone now.

 

He pulled on a pair of socks that had landed in the corner and stepped into his well-worn boots, realizing how tight they were getting. About forty-five minutes or so was left until the bus made its rounds, but it probably wouldn’t even stop with how long he’d missed this time. Walking to school wouldn’t be a first, but a ride would sure be nice. Will was obviously busy, so Daryl thought he’d take his chances and wait on the bus to come around.

 

Morning dew still laid heavy on the ground, reflecting light back at Daryl as he stepped quietly off of the porch. All the shit from the house hadn’t moved very far, Daryl thought. His and Merle’s beds, brown and cream couch, piece of shit chair, an antique wooden cabinet that had been his granny’s, among other odds and ends were all stuffed into a trailer and rusty white truck that had been parked in the yard. Whatever wasn’t broken or had bullet holes from Will shooting at it in the house – the result of too much to drink and an inflated ego, not to mention firearms always within reach.

 

“Daryl!” Will shouted from behind the house. “I know yer awake, boy! Getcha ass out here _now_!”

 

Of course, it had been too long since Will had ordered Daryl around. He was lucky to have avoided him this long anyway. Gnashing his teeth together, Daryl trudged around the side of the house and found his dad and, if he remembered right, some friend of his dad’s. His name was Tom or Tim or some shit like that. One of the guys Will would often trade valuables with – scrap metal, tools, guns – whatever was around.

 

The smallest shed door was open and Will and his friend were animatedly discussing whatever was inside, pointing to it with every other word.

 

“–one dog’s asleep and somebody comes up ‘ere looking for this thing?” Daryl approached them slowly, catching the end of Will’s question. “I want that other mutt you got. Need two.”

 

“Throw in the TV and I’ll bring her by after I lug this shit home,” Tim or Tom insisted, throwing a thumb over his shoulder.

 

“I know you ain’t deaf, Tim,” Will growled, eyes flashing. “I done _told_ you the TV stays,” Will’s forefinger pointed threateningly at Tim’s chest.

 

Tim simply shrugged his sagging shoulders, “Whatever, man. Just tryin’ to help you out.”

 

Some kind of deal had been struck, that much Daryl had worked out. It wasn’t uncommon for things to come and go around here and Daryl had to clench his teeth once more at the thought. _Merle_. He pulled a lot of that coming and going shit too, goddamn him. Even when the police weren’t involved, Merle always had a knack for skipping out. Chasing some girl, running up and down the road looking for dope, trying and failing miserably to become a member of the Rebel Angels MC. Daryl rolled his eyes and scolded himself internally. It didn’t matter because Merle wouldn’t be up to much of anything nowadays. He’d just be rotting away in jail for a couple years. Maybe, Daryl thought, he’d go visit Merle and bring him some smokes or something.

 

Daryl edged quietly around the back side of the house, peering in vain to see what mysterious new object lived in the shed now. If the sun would just come up a little bit more he would maybe be able to tell what it was without giving himself away.

 

His approach was foiled by the crack of a stray branch that lay on the ground behind his father. Will turned away from Tim and the shed, eyes still glinting with danger. This deal had taken every valuable that remained in the house, except for the TV. Will’s favorite spot to hunker down with a bottle was in a fossil of an armchair, eyes glossy and glued to the TV, hand glued to the bottle. From what Daryl understood, Will loved the TV almost as much as he loved the booze.

 

And hunting. Daryl couldn’t leave out hunting. It was the one thing Will sobered up for. It was amazing really, the difference in his demeanor. He was quiet and focused. Sharp, even. Will could use any weapon adeptly, but it was his beloved crossbow that he was most comfortable with. Anyone can shoot a gun, Will would say, but only a _man_ can use a bow. Daryl would always go along with his dad on his hunting trips, sometimes accompanied by Merle or Uncle Jess. After the kill it would always fall to Daryl or Merle to clean it. They even had a special shed around back just for hanging up the dead deer or sometimes rabbit or turkey. Cleaning and dressing the kill was a messy, bloody job, but Daryl had become so accustomed to it that he barely gave it a second thought.

 

“C’mon, boy,” Will said impatiently, gripping Daryl by the shoulder. Every nerve in Daryl’s body wanted to recoil, to escape. He didn’t care what his dad and Tim were doing or why they were doing it anymore, he just wanted to go to school and fade into the background for a little while. Without Merle here to pick fights with Will, Daryl was first choice by default.

 

“Some copper pipes in Tim’s truck out front. You go get ‘em and bring ‘em here,” ordered Will, shoving Daryl in the direction of the truck. The acrid stench of beer, both stale and fresh, lingered even after Daryl walked away.

 

With a jerk the cab door of the truck was open, a hound with mottled red-brown fur growled up at Daryl from the seat causing him to jump back. The dog lay on top of the piping he was supposed to be rounding up and Daryl thought, looking into the dog’s bleary red eyes, that he had been sent on a suicide mission. But one more menacing growl and the dog jumped easily to the ground, ignoring Daryl, and began sniffing around and marking his territory like he owned the place.

 

“Bring that dog!” Will yelled in late warning to Daryl.

 

His arms and hands full of piping, Daryl shouldered the cab door closed with a creak and clicked his tongue at the dog. He wondered why it was they were using such nice pipes when all this copper could be traded or sold for a pretty good price. Were they setting up some kind of fancy washing machine? Daryl couldn’t figure it out.

 

A wasp buzzing too close to his face had Daryl twisting the pipes the wrong way, sending them all clattering to the ground. The dog that had been silently following behind him gave a loud howling bark at the sudden noise.

 

“Shut up, would ya?” Daryl bit out irritably at the dog as he squatted down to pick up the pipes.

 

The sound of the copper falling to the gravel had masked the quiet approach of a beige sedan, nicer and much better running than any car that had sat in the drive before. A Lincoln, by the looks of it. Daryl stared at it from his position on the ground with what was sure to be a confused expression. The rising sun glinted off the top of it, making it hard to see who it was exiting the car. All Daryl could see was the top of a balding head.

 

Daryl squinted and stood, blowing his hair out of his eyes and watching the bald man step out of the glare of the sun while the gooey-eyed dog continued his lazy baying. He was a short man, a little round in the middle and his head was definitely balding, but this guy had tried to comb over what little he could, which made it worse. Or at least, Daryl thought it did. The gray suit he wore was rumpled and his expression was somewhat perplexed, like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be here in the Dixon’s driveway. Like the dog’s constant barking was the last sound he wanted to hear this early in the morning.

 

“You lost?” Daryl asked, not able to keep the smirk from his face. Really, what _was_ he doing here? People like this guy just didn’t come around this neighborhood.

 

“I’m not sure,” the man answered, looking up at the house as if it might be more likely to bite him than the dog. He looked down at the clipboard in his hand, fishing a pair of glasses out from a pocket in his suit jacket.

 

After a moment of flipping back and forth between pages, the man tapped his thumb on the paper and said, “I’m looking for the Dixon household. Have I got the right address?”

 

Trouble. Whatever this man was here for it spelled trouble. Daryl had to get this man out of here before his dad found him. He thought briefly that this man might be here for Merle, but he couldn’t figure out what for. People who came after Merle were either the same old garbage that lived around here, women who had seen better days, or the law.

 

“Dammit, boy! You get lost or wha-?” Will Dixon rounded the corner already dead set on a fight, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, but Daryl could see the telltale flare of Will’s nostrils at the sight of this…whatever he was. He was a stranger and that was a dangerous thing to be when standing on Dixon property, whether he meant to be there or not.

 

“Ain’t a good place to be gettin’ lost, mister,” Will said lightly through his cigarette. Only an experienced ear would have heard that venomous bite behind his voice.

 

The man looked from Daryl to Will, seeming to make the connection that they were related, that this was Daryl’s father even though the man had never even asked for Daryl’s name. At least, he hadn’t gotten that far yet.

 

Clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses, the man managed to say, “I’m Fred Plumb and it’s the Dixon residence that I’m looking for,” with only a slight wobble to his voice. The only man Daryl had seen Will stand toe to toe with and not look intimidated was Merle. It was no surprise to Daryl that this Fred Plumb was already starting to resemble a dog with his tail between his legs.

 

Will brushed passed Daryl and sat down heavily on the hood of the Lincoln, much to the chagrin of Mr. Plumb.

 

“Nice ride,” Will commented, rapping his knuckles against the beige hood. Mr. Plumb looked highly offended at the simple but territorial gesture. “What is it you want with the Dixons, _Plumb_?”

 

Mr. Plumb harrumphed, thumbed through his official looking clipboard and found the correct page yet again.

 

“It has come to the attention of the Coweta County Board of Education that a Daryl Dixon, age eleven,” Mr. Plumb paused his reading and glanced up at Daryl, satisfied that he looked to be about the right age and continued, “has been absent to the point of truancy. It has been assigned to me to check on the student and make sure that there is not some serious matter preventing him from attending school as he should be.”

 

The more that Mr. Plumb read, the hotter the back of Daryl’s neck became. There was no way Daryl would have thought Mr.Plumb was here for _him_. He watched the way his father was watching the ground piecing everything together, then bit his top lip, nodding at this new information. When Will’s hazel eyes finally locked with Daryl’s blue it was hard and sharp, like the edge of an arrowhead.

 

“Well, ain’t nothing wrong with ‘im, he’s just soft. Soon as that bus rounds the bend he’ll be on ‘is way to a _fine_ fuckin’ education!” Will exclaimed mockingly, lifting himself roughly off the Lincoln, gravel crunching under his boots. Will turned to face Mr. Plumb, who looked thoroughly miffed by this display, and crushed his cigarette on the front left tire of the Lincoln. He then looked at Mr. Plumb expectantly with raised eyebrows.

 

“Go on an’ get the hell outta here!” Will burst out violently with a wave of his arm.

 

Daryl had slowly began to shrink back towards the front porch with the intent to fade away, to blend in with the half shadowed, half torn down porch screen. He watched as Mr. Plumb scuttled into his fancy car and pulled away without another word.

 

A sigh of relief escaped his lips when Will started to walk away with that cur dog on his heels. How Daryl had managed to get out of that without some form of backlash was a miracle. Remembering the pipes that lay on the ground, Daryl removed himself from his hiding place, his head not clear enough to make sure the coast was clear first.

 

Will stood motionless beside the heap of copper that lay temporarily forgotten in the drive, gripping one short elbow of piping tightly in his hand. His knuckles had turned white from the force of it. Fear was very much alive within Daryl at that moment, a prickling sensation all throughout his body. He set his jaw and braced himself for what was about to come, careful not to look defiant.

 

Three long strides had Will standing before Daryl. It only took one swift blow of the pipe to Daryl’s ribs to knock him down. A wheezing breath escaped him as he crumbled to the ground in a sort of fetal position. He clutched at his ribs, unsure if they were broken or only bruised. The image of him looking like one of the old beer cans in Will’s truck came to mind, all bent and crushed in the middle.

  
Will loomed over him with the pipe still raised high, ready to strike again. “The hell you thinkin’ havin’ people like that show up here?”

 

Daryl knew it was better to not say anything at all when Will got like this, so he said nothing and kept his eyes squeezed shut. He would try to keep his mind as blank as possible even though the reality of it beat relentlessly against his closed eyelids, against his chest. His heart was thumping away at an alarming rate. But this wasn’t the first time that Daryl had the shit beaten out of him. He knew how to deal with it, even knew how to deal with the excruciating pain he was experiencing now. It was best to remain silent and let the tirade run its course than try and disrupt it with argument or explanation.

 

With the hard steel toe of his boot, Will kicked Daryl in the stomach and he shrunk into himself even further.

 

“’Bout to be turnin’ out hooch from that still back ‘ere and you got some asshole out here makin’ sure ya still alive!” Will was spitting he was so angry. He flung the pipe at Daryl, hitting him on the top of the head. Daryl could feel his skin busting apart, tingling with the sensation of blood trickling out. “Now getcha ass up an’ take those pipes back to Tim. Then you get on that bus so that piece o’ shit don’t come back here snoopin’ around some more!”

 

Daryl didn’t wait to be told twice. He got up as fast as he could manage, lungs stinging something awful and head aching. But he knew it would hurt worse later.

 

Will had already walked away and Daryl didn’t know if it was because he didn’t want to see the damage he had done or if he truly just didn’t care. Either way Daryl wasn’t surprised. The only person Will cared about was Will. Merle liked to boast about how much blood meant to the Dixon family, but for a while now Daryl was beginning to see that blood really only mattered to Merle. Wishful thinking on his part.

 

The pipes made their way from Daryl’s arms to the ground in front of the shed soon after that with somewhat of a struggle. Will had taken up fixing them all together with Tim obnoxiously looking over his shoulder giving him directions every now and again. Daryl could hear Will telling Tim to shut the fuck up, he could do it just fine by himself more than once as he leaned against the house waiting for the bus.

 

His eyes were fixed on the newly blank gray sky above him, dabbing at his hairline with an oily rag he had picked up from the porch. In time that it had taken Daryl to gather all the copper and deposit it, the sun had disappeared. Poetic he would never be, but Daryl couldn’t imagine a time that the weather had better reflected his mood. He could only draw shallow breaths for all the pain in his ribs and it annoyed him more than anything. Daryl wasn’t even about to start feeling sorry for himself now. Because there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it.

 

Daryl remembered Jo just as the bus drove around the bend, the jarring _whoosh_ of the brakes had him automatically walking for the end of the driveway. What was Jo doing right now? Probably not getting the shit beat out of her. She was picking berries and making jam or cleaning house, most likely. Normal things. He thought of how Jo had been so worried that no one was looking for him. What would she think of him now? On the surface Daryl could pretend that her opinion of him didn’t mean shit, but he knew it was a lie. Her farm was what a home should be: safe and wholesome and all those nice fucking words he would never associate with anything in his life. And the things was, what right did he have to try and call any of that his? Jo had done her part, treated him nice and sent him home. There was nothing else she could do. Daryl should have just accepted that there was nothing else she could give him and nothing else he should ask for.

 

But she had said that should he ever find his way back she would be there. It was all the invitation Daryl needed.  

 

Too long Daryl had done the same thing: slide by, avoid Will, follow Merle. It was time for a change. The plan was still in place. After he made it through the day with school, Daryl was finding his way back to the farm. He didn’t know how long it would take him, but he didn’t care. He was going and that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

School had been uneventful enough. Daryl had gone through the motions distractedly, pretending not to notice the furtive glances from classmates and teachers alike. The dried blood in his hairline wasn’t exactly hard to notice, even though he had tried his hardest to rub it away. They must not have been too worried because no one said anything directly to him, not a ‘Hey, are you okay?’ or ‘Do you need to talk?’ could be heard. There were only whispered guesses and lies behind his back. Daryl wouldn’t have let them ask anyway, which is why he guessed they didn’t bother. It was fine. Who really cared about that Dixon boy and his awful family?

 

He hissed loudly as he missed the last step off of the bus, trying to catch himself and hurting his already aching ribs in the process. A string of curses left his mouth, but he abruptly shut himself up when he noticed the police car parked behind Will’s truck. Had a teacher called the law on Will after seeing Daryl’s head? Was today finally the day that someone did more than just notice Daryl’s wounds? Shit. This wasn’t good.

 

It was awful quiet. Unsettling. The only sound was the wind picking up, blowing stray leaves and bits of plastic across the yard. If the law was after Will, Daryl knew he would not go quietly. He would put up a good fight just like he always did. He’d lost count how many times they had come for Will. Daryl didn’t know how, but maybe someone had tipped off the police about that still in the shed.

 

Daryl crept up the porch steps as carefully as he could, avoiding the second step that he knew creaked like a motherfucker. Still he heard nothing and so Daryl opened the door slowly and slipped inside. The house was as empty as it had been except there were footsteps and a voice coming from his bedroom.

 

“It’s here somewhere, officer. I dunno what the hell happened in here, but all my shit’s flung everywhere! I couldn’t tell ya where my I.D. landed. I bet all my beaver mags are gone too!” the voice said with exasperation.

 

Merle. Wait…why was Merle here?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you for the response to this fic. It's truly a great motivator to know what others think. And thanks to my beta Carrot Top! Enjoy!

 

Daryl’s bedroom door opened with a squeak and Merle filed out followed by Officer Benson, both looking confused and frustrated. Merle opened his mouth to say something else when he spotted Daryl standing in the middle of the empty living room. His eyes lit up immediately with warm recognition.

 

“Hey, hey Darylina!” Merle said with what was supposed to be a joking smack to Daryl’s ribs. Daryl jumped back at the contact to his bruised ribs and had to bite his cheek to keep from yelling at Merle for it. Doing that would give away the injury. Who knew what Merle’s reaction would be if he had real, physical evidence that what he’d always suspected was true – that Will didn’t spare the rod, or belt, or whatever was lying around handy enough to beat the tar out of his boys with.

 

Merle and Will had beat each other down to the point of serious injury. Daryl knew that because he had witnessed it himself, crouching before the keyhole in his room or from the corner of the same room. Daryl supposed that Merle thought of himself as the strong brother and Daryl the weak one – and maybe he was right in a way. Was Daryl weak because he took the beatings and kept it to himself while Merle almost boasted about it, claiming it was part of what had made him so tough? Whether it was or not, letting Merle in on that particular horror didn’t sound very smart. Sure, Daryl’s hatred of Will burned so hot it could probably boil someone or something alive – but he didn’t wish him dead. Not that he thought Merle would turn literally murderous, but when he was using that stupid crystal shit there wasn’t too much Daryl would put past him. So he swallowed the painful yelp he almost let loose in silence.

 

Merle eyes turned cloudy as he watched Daryl’s reaction, although it lasted only a fraction of a second. Daryl watched as Merle took in the dried blood in his hairline, piecing things together. Had he been someone else’s brother he might have said something, but Merle was Merle and so he said nothing; just gritted his teeth until the darkness behind his eyes disappeared.

 

Daryl noticed a new hollowness to Merle’s cheeks and how pale he had become over the last few days. Guess that’s what happens when you’re in jail and can’t get any dope. Nevertheless, that trademark mischievous grin had found its way onto Merle’s face again in spite of the events of the week. “What the hell happened here?” Merle asked, gesturing around him at the empty house and debris strewn floors. “I don’t even wanna guess.”

 

“Really don’t know for sure,” answered Daryl carefully, peering over at Officer Benson and hoping Merle would understand what he shouldn’t say. Moonshine. All their furniture – the only somewhat valuable things they had left – was gone so Will could play at making moonshine. He probably wouldn’t even sell it. He’d drink it all and then complain when it was gone.

 

Merle gave a dark little chuckle, seeming to understand – at least in part. “Without me this whole place falls apart, huh?” His tone and expression were genial, but the tiniest hint of spite hid behind his words.

 

All Daryl could do was stare at him. Daryl wanted Merle to be back, needed Merle to be back, but no way was Merle’s police escort the makings of a new friendship. He wasn’t coming home.

 

Officer Benson cleared his throat, “C’mon, Merle. It’s time to go. We can make you another I.D. at the station. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” Benson had been in the house before – multiple occasions actually – and had seen firsthand the kind of life the Dixon boys were subject to. If Daryl didn’t know any better, he would have thought Benson brought Merle by purposely to see him one last time.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Daryl finally asked, shaking his head in confusion. “Why are you here? I thought you were goin’ away.”

 

“I am. Just not where ya think,” Merle answered cryptically. “Benson here thinks I’m a stand-up guy!” He looked so pleased with himself. That shit eating grin had appeared on his face again. “Made me a deal with Uncle Sam. Goin’ to the Army ‘stead of jail. Pretty sweet deal, dontcha think?”

 

Daryl chewed his thumb, a nervous habit he’d had so long he couldn’t trace its origins, staring at the place where the rough floorboards met with the disintegrating kitchen linoleum. An ugly pattern of browns and rusts against splintering hardwood “I guess,” he mumbled and kicked at some broken shards of glass on the floor.

 

“Hey!” said Merle sharply with a finger pointed at Daryl’s chest. “I came back to tell ya where I was goin’ so it wouldn’t look like I just left! Now yer actin’ like some bitch havin’ mood swings. Cut that shit out!”

 

Daryl simply nodded. No reason to argue with Merle this time. This would be the last Daryl would see of Merle for a while. He didn’t know how all that military shit worked, but he knew Merle would be gone – just gone – like he would have been anyway. It didn’t matter where he was going, Daryl’s protector would not be here. The skill of fending for himself would need to be honed in Merle’s absence. Maybe he’d get so tough he wouldn’t even need Merle when he returned.

 

“Well, kick some ass, I guess” Daryl said awkwardly. He didn’t really want to say the actual word ‘goodbye’. Neither one of them was the type for that sort of thing.

 

“Stay clear the ol’ man,” Merle told Daryl, turning to leave with Officer Benson, who nodded curtly.

 

It was with those words and the way his brow furrowed as if he were struggling internally with something that Daryl knew that Merle knew. Knew, but somehow the “badass” that was Merle was unable to even _ask_ Daryl what was wrong – to question his bloody brow and sensitive ribs – like it would break some important code amongst men or some bullshit like that.

 

Angry as he was at this, “Mm-hmm,” was Daryl’s only response. He didn’t see the point in starting a fight that obviously neither one of them were ready to have. Merle rapped twice on the door frame and then he was out the door and Daryl stood alone in the vacant room. He heard two car doors slamming shut and knew Merle was gone for good. No way to stop him.

 

A distant rumbling signaled an impending storm, wind whipping the tree branches around with impressive force. Daryl stood silently, noticing again how broken down the house had become over the years. It was strange how the complete lack of things could cause Daryl to feel so confined, suffocated even. Every beating he had ever taken came back at him now. Three times in the kitchen, once in the bathroom, too many to count where he now stood in the living room. There were so many more and the memory of them clawed at him, threatening to overtake him. Evidence of these beatings seemed to burn unbidden at the thought. His back bore the brunt of Will’s anger, showcasing a variety of jagged scars, from the tiniest and shallowest to more broad lashes where his skin buckled.  Daryl felt like sinking into the floor and crying, something he hadn’t allowed himself to do for some time.

 

For some reason he peered through stinging eyes over his shoulder and was met with the picture of the barn done all in shades of brown.

 

Jo. The farm. What kind of life would he be living if that was where he were being brought up? If he’d had Jo for a momma instead of his own? Even Hershel would probably have been a better daddy, despite his clear misuse of drink, just like his own father. Merle would laugh, but Daryl could see himself being perfectly content living life quietly – safely – on a farm like Jo’s. Life here would never get better, only worse. He’d end up like Merle or worse, maybe end up a beer-bellied good-for-nothing like Will. But if Daryl could change all that – could do _something_ to change his lot in life – Jesus, he’d do it. He’d give anything to get away from this endless disappointment that was his life. 

 

The thought of a different, possibly even happy existence, overcame the feelings he’d had a moment ago of sinking into the floor and giving in.  Things were going to start looking up for him and he knew just where to begin.

 

He knew exactly where Will kept a pack ready for hunting trips. It would have everything he needed just in case he got lost again. If Daryl remembered right, the pack even had a bit of food in it, some homemade jerky of Uncle Jess’. This was a mission and Daryl had a clear objective. There would be no rambling around in the woods with no purpose like last time.

* * *

 

 

Daryl considered himself lucky for once, marching purposefully down the worn path he knew so well. He’d found the county map in the same closet as the pack, shoved far back on a shelf. Will had had his back turned, radio on and sitting on the ground tinkering with the still in the shed, when Daryl had snuck around the back towards the trees. He’d not heard Daryl nor Merle and Officer Benson come and go. A little pile of beer cans just outside the shed door was all that Daryl needed to see to understand why. That red-eyed dog had done just as Will said: it was sound asleep, chained up to the dog house Merle had made out of plywood beneath the plum tree. The small red fruit lay unwanted and rotting all around the slumbering mutt. Hornets buzzed greedily around them, sucking up as much of the sticky sweet juice as their little insect bodies could carry.

 

The map had been a huge win, but the hunting pack had everything else he needed. There was a flashlight, canteen, several strips of Uncle Jess’s homemade jerky, a silver tarp, a ragged powder blue shirt of Merle’s, some rope, a box of matches with only two matches left, and best of all: a half pack of stale cigarettes. Merle had stuffed one in his mouth and lit it before he could decline while they were on a hunting trip last year. Said it was about time that Daryl had one. Even Daryl had to admit that when everyone around him was smoking, it was hard not to be curious about it. He now only smoked when he found a cigarette, which wasn’t often, or when a generous streak hit Merle just right. Dixon men guarded their smokes like a national treasure.

 

He placed a cigarette between his lips, pulled a match out from the pack, lit it and inhaled. The sudden rush of nicotine to his system caused Daryl’s head to spin. It had been a good while since he’d had a smoke. He couldn’t help but sputter a bit and was relieved that no one was around to see him struggle with it.

 

Daryl allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face at the sense of freedom he now felt. In just a few hours he would be at Jo’s farm – doing what he didn’t know yet – and would be more at peace he just knew. Maybe he’d just be a runaway and never go back home. Daryl didn’t want to get that far ahead of himself and resolved to think only about the immediate plan: get to the farm.

 

He slung the brown canvas pack to the ground beside a clump of umbrella-like may apples, took one last draw on his smoke before casting it away, and carefully extracted the map from a side pocket. It was worn with so much use that several small holes had appeared where the map had been folded over and over. Starr’s Millpond was just to the north of his house, so it was easy to figure out his location in a roundabout way. Daryl drug his fore finger along the tattered paper, settling himself Indian style on the dirt and tried to guess as best he could how far a walk it was to the farm. He grumbled to himself when he realized that the creek he had followed almost directly to Jo’s was nowhere to be found on the map. Of course, it couldn’t have been that simple for him – nothing ever was.

 

Closing his eyes, Daryl tried to remember which way he had gone to get lost last time. Did he veer too far to the left or to the right? Had there been any recognizable landmarks?

 

Daryl opened his eyes and looked pointedly at the matching red marks on the inside of his arms with a frown, remembering his failed attempt to scale a tree to scout out his location on his most recent trip into the woods. No, there had been no landmarks besides the creek. But hadn’t the stream led him in the direction of the farm more or less?

 

He exhaled heavily through his nose, turning the map away from him. Maybe the map was just him overthinking. Maybe this whole thing was just stupid. Merle’s favorite saying drifted to the forefront of Daryl’s mind, “ _Ain’t nobody ever gonna care about you but me, little brother._ ”

 

No. Jo cared. And this was the only way to escape, to get out. He wasn’t going to chicken out now just because the map didn’t have a big flashing red arrow that pointed to the farm’s exact location. Merle’s ghost – or whatever it was – would not deter him from getting this done.

 

After a few more moments of studying the map, Daryl came to the conclusion that the farm was no more than five miles southwest of where he was now. Another cigarette was lit, the map folded carefully away, the pack pulled back up on his shoulder. Daryl was off to the farm like it was some predetermined journey he was always meant to take.

 

* * *

 

 

Thank god for the flashlight. Dark had fallen fast with the downcast clouds that had been lingering all day. Somehow it had managed not to rain yet, and for that Daryl was doubly thankful.

 

He’d found the stream before the sun set and followed it the same way he’d done before. It was just the way of nature he supposed, but Daryl couldn’t help thinking that the way the water narrowed down into nothing – disappeared underground – was a little eerie. Merle – being superstitious as he was – would have said it _meant_ something. Probably would have said it was a sign that Daryl should turn around and go back home. Daryl had to scoff at that. If Merle had known what he was up to, he would have used anything to convince Daryl this was a dumb idea. But Merle wasn’t here to do that and Daryl was glad of it.

 

The sounds of the forest in the twilight and then the dark were a great comfort to him. Daryl knew Merle liked to listen to the radio, heavy metal bands and shit like that, but nothing sounded more peaceful to him than the constant quiet noises of the woods. Tree frogs croaking, the whip-poor-will’s unmistakable cry and the occasional scurrying away of some small frightened creature was some of the best music Daryl had ever heard.

 

It had to have been a good thirty minutes or so since Daryl had parted ways with the underwater stream. He had chosen to veer off to the left slightly – if his memory served him right, that’s what he had done before. He shone his flashlight across the trees looking for the telltale elderberry bushes that would mean he had almost made it. Two iridescent green orbs floated nearby and Daryl did his best to tread quietly forward and not scare what was probably a deer. This was its home, not his. The forest was a special place for him and he treated it with as much reverence as he knew how. 

 

Daryl was coming upon the edge of the woods. He switched off the flashlight and continued until he was just barely inside the tree line, breathing a sigh of relief at what lay in front of him.

 

He’d made it. Although he’s missed the elderberry bushes, he still made it and was standing much closer to the barn than the house this time. Daryl took a moment to let it sink in, looking at all the little things he’d been too scared to notice last time. There were lots of neat little flower beds around the outside of the house, illuminated by the lights from inside. An old dinner bell stood tall not far from the spot – he remembered embarrassingly – where he’d almost gotten sick. This was an old farm and he could picture some lady of the house from long ago ringing it to call the men in from the fields for lunch or supper.

 

The light illuminating the many flowers went out suddenly, casting the farm into darkness.  Daryl realized with a start that it would be too late to make any attempt at speaking with Jo tonight. Hell, he still didn’t have a clue as to explain what he was doing there again. He’d need some time to think of something or way to tell the truth without really telling it.

 

A low whinnying escaped the great old barn to his right. It would be a nice dry spot to get some shut eye and think of something to tell Jo in the morning. Daryl was sure that Hershel wouldn’t remember the strange boy who stared out half petrified of him from inside his own house. Being drunk and then blacking out across the porch planks couldn’t have held Hershel’s memory intact from that night, so Daryl would have a fresh canvas to work off of as far as Mr. Greene was concerned. He hoped mostly for Jo’s sake that he wasn’t the type of man that Will was. Daryl couldn’t care to imagine Jo living in the same fear and misery his own momma had. Will and Connie Dixon were the great example of a couple that shouldn’t be together and Daryl wished hard that it wasn’t the same for Jo and Hershel. He didn’t know Jo very well – okay, he didn’t really know her at all – but he could tell she was a lady that deserved the best the world could offer.

 

He entered the little enclosure on the side of the barn that housed a tractor and inhaled deeply. It smelled of oil and cool, damp earth packed down from years of tread. Maybe if the sky didn’t look so intent on fulfilling the promise of rain it’d had all day this would be a good place to stay. Being in the barn seemed to be a better idea as well if Daryl wanted to remain unseen until he had found a good reason to reveal himself.

 

Daryl walked through the enclosure, turned a corner and found a ladder that led up to what he thought to be the hay loft. Upon reaching the top, he found the hay loft to be much bigger than he’d originally thought. It was an entire second level of the barn with a multitude of suitable places to settle in for the night. He spotted twenty or so rectangle shaped hay bales on his left in a corner and he immediately set about work making himself a bed out of them. Daryl scooted four bales together and took out Merle’s old shirt from his pack, laying it down in a bundle at one end as a makeshift pillow.

 

This bed would do much better than whatever was left to him at home. Daryl would have been on the floor back there. He laid down carefully on the hay, not wanting to poke himself too hard with the stray pieces that stuck out. Staring up at the barn ceiling, he inhaled deeply again. This time he smelled hay and molasses and something like dirt or dust that he figured was the horses down below, their subtle clicking of hooves and short, heavy exhales of breath giving them away.

 

The rumbling of thunder that had been lingering all day returned again with some force and then Daryl heard the rain begin to fall in a steady rhythm, pinging against the tin roof of the barn. It was soothing, all these noises and smells that were new but felt so familiar. It was as if someone wrapped him up in a warm blanket after a big meal.

 

Daryl felt his eyes fall closed and his body unwind and it was one of the best feelings he’d had in a long, long time. Being able to feel his muscles fully relax as he drifted off to sleep was never something he was afforded, even when Merle was home. He always slept with a tension in his body, ready to spring up and flee at any moment. Daryl tried to will his body into staying awake to prolong his enjoyment, this peace, but his body was exhausted. He ignored the stinging, burning in his lungs from smoking cigarettes on top of injured ribs and let the rain lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

As if someone had called his name, Daryl awoke with a start. His eyes snapped open to the glaring early morning sun in his face along with the wrong end of a double-barrel shotgun.

 

The dark haired man Daryl knew to be Hershel Greene was pointing the gun at his nose, wearing a sour expression.

 

“Son, you better have a _real_ good reason for being in my barn.”


End file.
